


Unbecoming, Unnerving

by hegemony



Series: This Collision in Mid-Bloom [2]
Category: British Actor RPF, CW Network RPF
Genre: Angst, Chromatic Character, Leather Kink, M/M, Masturbation, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Phone Sex, Power Play, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-10
Updated: 2012-03-10
Packaged: 2017-11-01 17:55:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/359636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hegemony/pseuds/hegemony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jeff never thought he was going to feel what slipped through his fingers when he was young, but now he finds himself coming to grips with the kind of reality that terrifies and electrifies him in equal measure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unbecoming, Unnerving

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lacerta (rosereddawn)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosereddawn/gifts).



After dinner, Jeff walks back to the hotel, takes the elevator to his floor. The lock is depressingly fiddly: it takes an embarrassing amount of tries to get the little green light to blink weakly in his direction. He pushes past, gropes for the light switch. The hotel he's been put up in is bland-- taupe walls and a generically comfortable bed. 

_'It's a non-space, JD,'_ she used to say to him soothingly, back when she was still more of a mentor than a partner. _'Everybody hates them, but really they just hate that they have to make their own meaning, there. Most people would rather pay someone else to do it.'_

Feh, he thinks. Jeff hates business travel. He disdains the itch of being suck in transit, the hotel bed, the rental car and suit that never fits quite right. Why does he do it? A chinzy presentation, a happy client who will give him a referral or two, the occasional confab between colleagues.

Yeah, Jeff's made this fate with keeping this whole architecture business above ground. It's likely not helped by the fact that he goes it alone most times, now that she's gone. Still, it doesn't mean he has to like it. 

He goes into the bathroom and glowers as he strips out of his clothes. The leather of his shaving bag is battered from years of being shoved into suitcases and carry-ons, and he spends a moment tracing a worn corner before popping it open in search of his toothbrush. The too-bright mirror lights make him look tired and pallid as he washes his face and reaches for the shirt he'll end up sleeping in. He reaches and flicks the mirror light off and the darkened undertone in his face disappears a little. 

A moment to rinse the toothbrush out, and he's thankfully almost free of the bathroom but still confined to this anonymous place he can sleep for a few hours. It's all just business, even here. Even worse, it's all just memories, muted longing for something better: a comfier bed, a larger space, color anywhere. 

It's tempting to call for room service, ask for a cup of coffee or a beer. Instead, he plucks his cell phone and headset from the place he's stashed them with his wallet and keys. He takes it with him as he flicks the bathroom door closed. He punches in Idris' number before he can even realize it, and presses 'call' before he can stop himself. The phone rings anxiously as Jeff slides into bed.

"And here I thought you had grown tired of my company, Morgan," the voice on the other side of the line sounds powerful even in a neutered whisper, the dry wit of the accent almost heart-stopping. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your call?" 

Jeff hesitates, but the silence on the other side of the call is expectant. 

"I missed you," Jeff sighs, "Work's been a mess. Been traveling a lot more than I was before. Long hours, intense. But, I was thinking of you and…" 

"You're homesick," Idris' voice bends in sympathy. "Poor thing. Where are you, if you don't mind my asking?" 

"Knew you'd catch on quick," Jeff exhales. "Boston. After spending the day on the world's most excruciating cross-country plane ride." 

"My condolences," Idris teases, indulgently.

"You'd think owning the company would mean I get the perks of being the entire C-suite," Jeff laughs. 

"Perhaps, but past experiences have informed me that business class is incredibly overrated." 

The way he tells it, Idris had been corporate for one day too long, blew a gasket at his old middle-manager finance job somewhere in too-hard-to-attempt-pronouncing, England, and then walked out and set about getting a curator's doctorate. Jeff knew that you could get a doctorate in those kinds of things: art history and museum management and all. He just didn't think people bothered. 

"Tell that to my back," Jeff groans. Elba's laugh is intoxicating sound in Jeff's earpiece. 

"I'm sure the knots will be easy enough to rub out, once you're back," he soothes. "Is it late, in Boston?" 

"Eleven at night," Jeff nods. "I won't be up for much longer. Are you even home?" 

"Unfortunately, no. But I have the gallery all to myself, thankfully. What are you wearing?" 

Jeff has attended the gallery where Idris is head curator exactly twice, and both times ended in blowjobs instead of deep conversation on the nature of abstraction and art. And yet, he stops: Jeff's never been one for phone sex. If he's honest with himself he'd say it's because he's way too shy, has never been able to talk candidly about himself and his needs outside of the club. 

"We both know what we'll be doing after this call ends, Jeff," Elba's voice lowers to a summons, a challenge in a voice that usually deals in orders. A shiver of nerves cascade down Jeff's spine. The fact that he's been around long enough to know the difference makes him hard. "If you'd feel better about partaking in the practice alone, I can easily leave you to it and free up my hands." 

Well, when he puts it that way, "I'm in boxers, an old shirt from a grunge concert from the 90s." 

"Fine sense of nighttime fashion," Idris comments, charmingly. 

"Well," Jeff grins, "I wasn't aware I'd be judged on my choice of bedtime attire." 

"Oh, I'm not judging you," he notes. "I'm trying to get a good picture of you in my head, laying there. You're not tired yet, I imagine." 

"Not particularly," Jeff affirms. "You gonna tell me I need permission to touch myself, now?" 

"How incredibly silly," Idris murmurs. 

"So I'm laying here," Jeff starts. He imagines that Idris were there, legs crossed smartly in his dress pants, mug of stiff tea or glass of whisky wedged into his right hand. Watching, as Jeff slides a hand down against the washed-soft fabric of his boxers. Cataloguing, as Jeff's mouth falls open. Memorizing, as Jeff's head turns away in the first kinetic spark of pleasure. 

"What are you thinking of?" 

"You watching me from the other side of the room, while I touch myself," Jeff murmurs. 

"Let me guess, you intended to ease into putting your hand around that gorgeous cock," Idris damn near growls. "You want it, but you'll hold back because you want to make it look good for me too. So you're sitting there without the finest clue of what you'll do with yourself." 

"When you put it that way, I should just get over myself and jack off, then," Jeff shrugs. 

"Maybe you should let me help. I wouldn't just stand back and watch." 

"What would you do?" 

"What anyone with eyes would do, of course. Climb into bed right next to you," Idris says. "I've dreamed of what I'd do to you, the next time we were together." 

"Yeah?" 

"It would be easy, wouldn't it?" Idris continues, "I'd want to take my time, tease you a little. Get you out of that ratty shirt, first." 

"It's not ratty," Jeff replies as he walks back to the bathroom to dig through his shave kit. The bottle of gel-lube's still as embarrassing as it always is, and this is the first time he's decided to use it himself. 

"You know it's 2012, right? I'd rip that thing right off if you'd let me. Will you take your clothes off for me?" Idris asks. It's shockingly lacking the confidence Jeff always assumes comes in all things with Elba. 

Jeff holds on to the earpiece while flinging his shirt over his head, going back to the waistband of his boxers. "Where are you?" 

"At my desk," Idris replies. "I was looking over a list of works I'll have to either restore or reject before you called." 

Jeff can hear the fond smile in his voice as he returns to the bed, lying on his back. Visions of old film noir detectives-- with their cigars and inner angst-- cloud Jeff's thoughts for a fleeting second. The fantasy arises and Jeff surrenders to its beauty: Idris' workspace shrouded in melodramatic black and white, slim cones of light his body slinks between. 

"Remind me to have the 'I want to fuck you in your office' conversation, later. Any of your interns around to see the boss get painfully hard and accidentally desecrate a painting?" 

"Thankfully, no. This part of the job isn't one that I'm quite ready to teach," Idris replies. "And besides, we're in your bed in Boston, remember? Surely you don't expect I'd bring interns to take notes." 

The idea of Idris standing in front of a bunch of paintings, taking careful notes on each one, analyzing every angle in his grand vision as he talks Jeff masterfully right off the ledge in careful whispers and well chosen words is just like him. Jeff should hate being around Elba, should hate the mixture of dominance and worship he seems to strike in all things. 

All Jeff can do is smirk, "and here I thought you enjoyed group sex."

"On occasion," Idris replies heartily, "but I prefer it to be with a group of people who aren't clueless enough to ask who's the woman in my same-sex relationship." 

"We're in the kinda relationship you've told your subordinates about?" Jeff grins, " _Darlin'_ , I didn't even know you felt that way."

"One of my art school dropouts did find me in a moment where I was pining for you, I'll admit. I did not think it prudent to divulge the circumstances under which we met, but I gave him the crib sheet version," Idris' soft chuckle is warm and only a little frustrated. 

"We could be complicated enough for cliff's notes," Jeff agrees, solemnly. "I'm choosing to focus more on the fact that you pined. At work. Did you come down with a case of 'thirteen year old girl' that day, Elba?" 

"Would only make this whole conversation more awkward, I'm afraid. Are you naked, yet?"

Jeff grins: it's always nice to know when someone's on task, "Of course I am." 

"Good, so that means I can push your legs up, tilt your hips back, see all of you." 

"I didn't think you were into manhandling."

"I'm not, not with you," Idris reasons, "It's just a means to an end. I'm not trying to examine. No, just making it easier to put my mouth in the places you don't even bother touching. So many parts of you that go vastly under appreciated, Jeffery." 

The bottle opens with a prim flick, and the lube is just as neat-cold as he remembers. He squirts the liquid out against his fingers, puts the bottle aside remembering how long it's been since it got used. He brings it down to the head of his cock, body warmth to body warmth, and slowly strokes. He slides backward for some sort of stimulation against his ass, against the place he hasn't gone for this kinda pleasure in years. "Yeah?" 

"Of course. Get my tongue right in there, hold you up and open and fuck you until you let go for me." 

"It's been a while since anybody was hungry to get back there," Jeff says. He's not lying: it's been years. "You'll really have to work for it." 

"Since when have you seen me back down from something I want because 'I really have to work for it,' Jeff? I'll eat your ass all day long if I damn well please," Idris hisses. The sentiment shouldn't be nearly as sexy as it is, "You'll relax for it, until I can start getting my fingers in there, touch you exactly the way I want to." 

"Hold on," Jeff pauses as one of his fingers slips just inside, the burn brighter than he remembers. The sound he makes is rather involuntary, a grimacing whimper that's only barely replaced with need halfway. 

"That's it," Idris coaches, gently. "I know it's been a while. It's okay, it's me. I'm patient. All the time in the world, in fact."

Jeff's head stalls out a bit, his finger withdrawing, still coaxing, getting himself to open up for this. Two fingertips slip in, and oh god he's melting from the inside with how good the burn has become, the stretch almost intoxicating as he takes his fingers to the root. "Tell me…" 

"You know just where I want you to touch, Jeff. Just how I'd touch it," Idris' interruption is so soft it could go unnoticed if Jeff hadn't been paying some semblance of attention. "You're there, your fingers so close to it, I bet. Just a little further, Jeff. A little harder." 

It should get Jeff's hackles up, that tone not unlike the one Elba uses on the subs that sit at his feet in scene. But Jeff can hear Idris under that wall of alter-ego level certainty. He can hear it in the breathy, pulled apart vowels, the urgent undercurrent of a plea. The words bounce around in Jeff's head, betraying more softness than they should. For every untapped well of submission Jeff has revealed in the last few minutes, he can hear the same on the other side of the phone. Nobody's ever _that_ good of an actor.

Maybe he underestimated how complicated a call like this would become, but then he pushes forward, hisses as he knows what he's bumping into. 

"God, you sound gorgeous," the voice on the other end of the line compliments. "Get you warmed up and you sing beautifully." 

"Fuck you," Jeff says, weakly. 

"Soon, Morgan. I've a gift for you, at the house. Brought it with me on this trip, knew it was yours when I saw it. A wooden toy, lacquered smooth as glass." 

"You haven't put me in this state for that, have you?" Jeff asks. "Have me get off on a shitty piece of widdled balsa?" 

"Rare-cut redwood, actually. Again, merely a means to a very attractive end. Have patience," Elba advises. "Toys like this one, they don't drag or burn, really. They pull you open and you barely even feel it coming. They find the prostate so well, zero right in on it, blunt pressure that feels so good you want to give your whole day over to it." 

"Sounds like you're speaking from experience, there." Jeff points out. 

"Good artists must know the range of their tools, Jeffery." 

And oh, that sets Jeff off on another path of freeze-frame fantasies, of self-bondage and electricity and deprivation. Jeff's fingers press inward because he needs the reaction of his body like a drug. It's hard to even know where the urge comes from. 

"I wonder what you're thinking of, over there," Idris continues whimsically. "Remind me to tell you the story of the most devilish torture I've ever cooked up for myself, sometime later." 

Jeff can barely find his voice after the visions subside and he realizes he's keening and groaning wordlessly on the line. "So I'm on my back, you're between my legs, your hand's on this toy as it slides into my ass." 

"You have a real knack for making this experience as pedantic as possible. You know that, right?" Idris says, "Like me fucking you open wouldn't have you tossing and turning and utterly mindless on that bed. Like you wouldn't be pleading for me to shove you full, if I were there right now. This thing I'd have in my hand, it would make you just part for me, break all those little walls down. Even the ones you're too stubborn to realize you have. You wouldn't know what hit you." 

Well, when he presents it so spitefully, Jeff really can't bring himself to disagree. There's another moment for lube and he reaches down and flicks up a third finger, the fingertip sliding just inside and he knows Idris is listening to how his breath hitches, the whimper he bites back as he pulls back a little and widens out with three. He clenches, bows, his free hand reaching out to clutch the starched, overwashed hotel sheet. "What now?" 

"You know where my mouth goes," Idris says, fondly. "I'd put you down my throat the way I know you like." 

"That's an understatement. I love that trick," Jeff laugh comes out as a terse sound of arousal. 

And there's that dominant growl, "get your hand on your dick, Morgan." 

Somehow, the forwardness doesn't ruin the fantasy. Jeff knows Idris' ability to render him incoherent in seconds, pushing Jeff backward on any surface he could find and taking him to the base without even thinking. The lack of articulation or adoration spent on tracing every inch of Jeff out is replaced with a hungry need to throat-fuck, Idris never pulling away for more than a breath, the head of Jeff's cock popping back and forth as it slides down into that tightness, fucks it open, hoarse, raw. 

Jeff strokes himself off thinking about that, the rhythm and pace that Idris always sets, a show of his power. 

"Oh, fuck," he groans, his fingers shoved against his prostate, his hand squeezing just under the head of his dick. He wants to last, see this little fantasy through but his back is arching, his head hanging limp against the pillow. He's damn near strung out for it, he wants this so bad, didn't know how much he missed it, didn't know how spun up he'd be. 

"Don't try to make this about endurance, Morgan," Elba says, "You forget that I've got everything I need to make sure you can't even control it when you come. You're just along for the ride. All I have to do is put just a little more pressure on your prostate, get it until all you can do is take your hands away." 

"I need to come, I'm gonna come," Jeff gasps. 

"Yeah?" Idris asks, "And if I work you harder, Jeff, what then?" 

Jeff does it without even thinking: his fingers rubbing against his prostate more forcefully, his hand stroking harder and the way eased along with pre-come. The noises Jeff make into the earpiece are incoherent, a gasp for air. He's gyrating against invisible hands, bucking against an invisible mouth. Idris falls silent, listening no doubt, as he jots down yet more notes of his grand design. He hasn't sounded dispassionate in any range, not through dirty talk or repartee, and somehow that's even more of a turn on, how it's a secret between the two of them, how hard he must be in his slacks, listening to Jeff even as he won't take care of himself. Jeff imagines Idris is sitting there thinking of the picture of his own making, wondering what Jeff's doing to himself right now. 

Another harried yelp spills out of Jeff's mouth as he finally gives in, his come a mess. His orgasm is a flash-grenade behind his eyes, a knot of anxiety that Jeff didn't even realize he'd had being violently tugged loose.

Idris' voice is full of open adoration as he says, "That sounded lovely."

If Elba would have really been at the helm of such a calamity, Jeff wouldn't have come until he was on the verge of passing out, life's worries utterly obliterated. Jeff reaches down, reluctantly wipes his come away with his wadded up shirt, and reaches for his boxers. He's still trembling when he gets the elastic up around his hips, everything so wet and stretched and _ready_ that it sorta feels like it's going to waste as is. The shower he takes in the morning will no doubt be a gift sent from god. Jeff's toes curl under and he shores up the blankets, his whole body in need of warmth. 

"I assume you haven't got a hand down your chinos, over there," Jeff prods. 

"You'd be right, if it weren't for the idea that I wear chinos," Idris says, softly. "It can wait." 

"How long?" Jeff asks. 

"It depends on how long you're in Boston." 

Well, that's unexpected. 

"My flight's on Friday afternoon. Can't think of the time when I come in off the top of my head." Jeff yawns. He looks at the clock, it'll be Monday morning soon. 

"It can wait," Idris reassures in Jeff's ear. "I'm aching to touch you, I don't think anything else will satisfy at the moment. I _miss_ you, more than I have proper right to." 

"But we're fixing that now, a little," Jeff says. "And we could fix it a lot more on Friday?" 

"Yes, we could," Elba whispers. "Sleep well?" 

"Like the dead," Jeff grins. "Good luck on the hard decisions, there." 

"The only hard decision I have is the one under the table right now, Jeff." 

The giddy belly laugh is uncontrollable as it falls out of Jeff's mouth, the statement catches him so off guard. "I could get used to watching you suffer, if you're always this frank about it." 

"I wouldn't get too used to it," Idris suggests good naturedly. "The offer will be promptly rescinded once you're back in town and I can see you again."

"I'll just have to lavish myself in the concept before I get home, then. Call you up tomorrow, fuck myself on your answering machine," he says, looking up at the clock. Ah, midnight. "I'd love to keep this up for the next few hours, but I really do need sleep." 

"Yes," Idris says. "Have a good night." 

"I already have." 

 

 

 

 

 

Elba's right, Jeff's homesick for a place that has so little beyond the things he's built from the shambles of an old life. Still, he sits in the generic hotel chair, drinking his generic bottle of beer, watching the local news on mute as he sketches, and all he needs in his head is a voice other than his own. He turns the television off, sits forward and dials Idris' number again. He tries not to think of what it means to call two nights in a row. 

"You're not doing anything?" 

"Just packing up. Where are you?" 

"Done for the day, back at the hotel. You got plans?" 

"Not particularly." 

There should be so much more in this conversation, about Boston and the good day he knows he's had, about the day Idris has had, too. Instead, Jeff chokes it out like he can't even control himself. "There was a woman, you know. Before I started with the family." 

There's a thump. Great, Jeff thinks. At least the guy's sitting, now. "And you want to be having this conversation, now?" 

"I…don't think I can hold out on it, anymore," Jeff admits. "And I didn't really want to see your face when I did it. But I had to tell you about this, before I saw you again." 

The sigh he hears isn't nearly as long, or tiresome than he thought it would be. "Who was she, Jeff? Ex-wife?" 

Jeff takes a long pull of his beer, and sighs. "We never got that far. Died b'fore I could get a ring on her finger." 

"Accident?" 

"No. If only." 

And there's that long, enduring sigh. Jeff smiles self-effacingly, as Idris speaks up. "Is that the reason why you started going to…"

"Yes," Jeff inserts. "And no, I think. It helped take my mind off the grief. But I…always kinda knew I wanted in on it."

"Did you get what you wanted out of it?" 

"What?" 

"It's a simple question," Idris asks. "Did it take your mind off things or make the grief worse?" 

Jeff closes his eyes and thinks about it. 

"Jeff?" 

"It…I think it helped. The pain receded, and they broke me. I was young and a bit easy to break, but I could forgive myself after coming home. Leather might not be a good therapist, but it's good for letting you know just how far you can drop before someone tries catching you." 

"So you used it to settle shit about her?" 

"About a lot of things." 

"So, why're you telling me about this, Jeff?" Idris asks, softly. The question sounds too intimate, and Jeff can close his eyes and imagine that leveling gaze set upon him. He feels more fragile than he has a right to over this, "What do you need?" 

"I…fuck, I just need you to know that you're the first person I've given a fuck about since her, I guess," Jeff shrugs. "It's been a while, y'know." 

"How long?" 

"Long. She died in '98." 

"Christ, Jeff," Idris groans. 

"Remember how I said Leather wasn't a good therapist?" Jeff replies. 

"No," Idris pleads. It's a threadbare, tenuous sound. "No, don't do that now. I can't take that right now, you can't leave me hanging. Tell me about it, any of it. I want to know why it hurt you so badly."

"I was pretty young, all things considered. She was my boss for a while." 

"Office romance?" 

"Not the way you think. I made senior partner right around the time when she started getting…" Jeff pauses for a second, licking his lips. "Didn't think much of it, doing double the work when she got sick but I didn't know it was her company." 

"You mean you…" 

"Yeah," Jeff nods. His hand fits over his eyes, and he tries to remember the way it went down. "She was testing me, I think. And I just wanted to take care of her, I guess. Started helping her out on weekends, going over to her place after work. Brought her everywhere, we were attached at the hip and I tried my hardest to make sure she didn't feel like she was rotting away." 

"Jeff-"

Jeff's eyes squeeze shut and he tries to separate the pain of his memories from the way he felt when Mary-Lou was still alive. "I don't think I was doing it because I wanted to sleep with her or anything, I just thought that's what good co-workers, _friends_ , should do for one another. I didn't realize I had loved her until she was really, really bad. I couldn't tell she loved me back until she was worse. I still can't help but regret that: if I just would have seen it, I would have at least tried to marry her before the end of it all, you know?" 

"I'm sure you did all you could," Idris' voice is soothing, careful. 

"She left me the company in the will. Said I was the only one she trusted. Look, I don't even know where I'm going with all this, man," Jeff groans. 

"I do. It sounds like you just wanted me to know what happened, and how you dealt with it, and what that means for who you are. You wanted me to know the picture before I could fit," he reasons. "And that's fine, honest. I don't want you to forget the person you were around her." 

The truth is that Jeff knows the person he was around her, lovelorn and naive and purposefully exposing himself in hopes that his support would save the day. He doesn't want to be that way around Idris, that's not the man he is anymore. 

"Jeffery," Idris whispers in Jeff's earpiece. 

"I just felt guilty about not telling you, after all this time, y'know?" Jeff admits, sighing. "And it stings a bit because I do miss you. I miss you the way I miss her, sometimes. And I think I'm really afraid of finding a novel way to fuck this up, too." 

There's a long, pondering silence over the line and Jeff takes the opportunity to bury his face in his hands. The revelation is like tracing his finger over a sharp glass edge, slicing himself open with an x-acto knife. 

Idris chokes out a humorless laugh. "You know, I've scared more than my fair share of people. Even gotten off on it a few times, I suppose. I honestly don't think I've ever made anyone frightened like this, though. You're a lot more together than I would be." 

"Ambition and extended periods of self-flagellation will do that to you," Jeff says, deadpan. 

Idris' deep laugh at the attempt of gallows humor is music to Jeff's ears. 

"Now," Idris says, "tell me how your day went." 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jeff's been back in town a grand total of three goddamn hours. 

In that time, he has taken a cab back from the airport, gotten Bisou from the neighbors down the street, taken the world's best shower, and passed out on the couch. As he dozes, he thinks about _her_ , although it's whimsical. He lost the need to grieve a few years ago, while stretched out on some anonymous rack in some anonymous club, he'd tricked others into flogging that guilt right out. He thinks about that, too, how good it felt to give all his pain over to the physical, an emotional purge. 

The doorbell rings, and he sits up, shaking his head clear. The fog from his eyes clears slowly, slow enough to warrant an impatient second ring. Ah, yes. 

He walks up to the intercom and presses the talk button. "Hello?" 

"One of these days, Morgan, I swear you're going to demand I come prepared to throw rocks at your window," he says. 

"Probably," Jeff grins. He presses the buzzer and unlocks the atrium door. Jeff isn't wearing shoes and god knows his shirt is a bit big and likely too faded, but he can't really bring himself to care. He cards his hand through too-long hair, opening the door to lean against the sill. He watches as Idris climbs up the atrium stairs, looking tragically good. Jeff's eyes focus on each piece, the prim oxford shirt and leather tie under a fantastically cut motorcycle jacket that wraps tight around the trunk of his body. 

Idris is wearing leather gloves, stark black and stretched-thin over the range of his knuckles. Jeff imagines they're butter-soft and well oiled like every other piece of hide the guy owns. A pinprick of annoyance slides under Jeff's skin: he's utterly underdressed in every definition of the word, even if Idris is looking at him like he's gorgeous. 

He's carrying an old leather bag, a curious trinket that does not look one bit out of place. Jeff doesn't even trust his voice to be sarcastic, "and what does the gentleman's attaché hold tonight?" 

"General supplies, fresh undergarments, the instrument I told you about on the phone and a fantastic bottle of red wine I'd saved for the next time we'd see each other," Idris recites.

"You decided to bring extra underwear but no whips, crops or cuffs?" Jeff teases. "You romantic." 

Idris pauses a few steps from Jeff's reach, his brows furrowed. "Were you expecting those?"

"You did just come from the club, after all." 

"Keen eye. They're in the other bag in my car actually, but I don't see much of a need unless you expect me to take requests. I do not take requests," Idris says as he climbs the final stairs, stands eye to eye with Jeff. "Hello, darling." 

"You do that just to spite me," Jeff grins, lifting his mouth to Idris'. The kiss they share is a gentle, sweet greeting more telling of longing than repression.

"There's a difference between spite and a genuine pleasure in seeing you wound up, I'm afraid." 

"I've been wound tight since Boston," Jeff remarks. "Any tighter and my spring will pop." 

"Let's see what we can do about that, yeah?" 

"I'm so glad you make house calls, doctor," Jeff grins, stepping aside. "Shall we skip the pleasantries?" 

"Haven't we already?" Idris asks. It's a fair point, Jeff thinks, as he snaps at Bisou while she swarms around Idris curiously. A leather-gloved hand reaches down, scratches her behind the ears gently. Jeff selfishly wishes for that sort of attention directed solely at him, and he whistles Bisou away after she's gotten enough contact for the night. She scampers away to the kitchen in search of the well-placed snack Jeff had dropped in hopes that he'd need her out of the way. 

After she's gone, Jeff groans and leans forward, taking Idris' mouth once more. Even though he could, Jeff does not bother slamming the man up against the door and pressing his body against him. No, they're both humming as is, all rapid fire arousal aching in anticipation of what's going to happen. Jeff's heart beats faster in his chest. 

The bedroom seems like a no-brainer, and Jeff's completely fine with puling the guy over in that direction. 

Idris puts his bag over on the bureau and as soon as it's out of his hands Jeff's turning to him, taking him by the mouth. It's a quick twirl of footwork and then Idris is deposited on the bed, still clothed. Jeff whips his shirt over his head and sets out about shucking Idris' shoes off. 

Jeff snarls when he catches sight of Idris' fingers undoing his fly, shrugging out of his gloves. There's likely a damn good reason why Elba wants to get out of his clothes quickly, the ceremony of putting all the outward trimmings of a well-thought outfit aside. Jeff understands that, understands the control needed for that but there's something to be said for a moment of ritual-eclipsing passion, as well. He tugs Idris' gloves back up his palms, buttons them back up. "No, I want to do that." 

"I know what you're doing," Idris says, softly. "You don't have to do this, you know. You know I won't think any less of you, right?" 

Jeff drags his fingers up to Idris' wrists, pinning them to the bed. He's surprised Elba goes so willingly. "I know you won't." 

"Just thought I'd help, it'd be more efficient and all," Idris shrugs. 

"And another time I'll be really thankful for that but right now I want you to lie there, all buttoned up for me. That's how you can help," Jeff says as he finishes undoing Elba's jeans. Idris pushes up, so Jeff can slide the denim away without stretching it out too much. "Oh, _fuck_." 

"Yeah?" Idris asks him. 

"Fuck yeah," Jeff nods, crooked smile stretched across his face. "You wear this for me?" 

Idris examines Jeff's face for a second, weighs potential answers. His voice is hot and just a little unsure and _fuck_ , "Maybe." 

Jeff doesn't even know how he's going to survive this. Idris might be splayed out in front of him, but he looks like a pin-up once more, in his leather jacket and gloves and his fucking leather jock-strap, death-black against dark brown skin. All that's missing is a good old-fashioned pair of Docs, tenuously laced up, and the guy would look straight out of Tom of Finland. 

"Anybody else see this tonight?" Jeff asks. He already knows the answer. 

Idris cants his hips up once more, an impatient offering, his body doing the pleading his mouth won't give into. Jeff spreads those facing legs even wider, pushes his face down against the jut of the strap. Here, the smell of sweat, leather, and skin is overpowering, and Jeff's mouth waters. 

"Just you," Idris murmurs. "Don't tease." 

Jeff bares his teeth, and uses his mouth to pick up a leather strand sitting on the cup, plucking it free. His tongue slides across to the other side of the cup, and tugs the strap free on that. He brings his mouth down to tease at those gorgeous, strong thighs, kisses and soft licks teasing at the folds where they connect into his hips. The skin there is ticklish, and Jeff can feel the skin underneath his mouth firm up but Idris doesn't seem like he's not enjoying himself. Jeff slides the cup free, unsurprised at the erection underneath, all cinched up with a silver cock ring, holding everything plump and tight-together. Jeff takes the cock in one hand, pressing the fingertips of his other hand to his tongue to get them wet. 

"Jeff, Jeff what…" 

Spit-wet fingers slide against the crown. Idris arches forward, slides himself into Jeff's hands as he folds himself further into the sheets. His breathing hitches in a moan, like sensation's blocking out everything else in his head. 

"You really did wait," Jeff muses. His touch lowers, examining the silver ring, trying to find the clasp. 

"That's not an invitation to be incredibly cruel," Idris scowls. Jeff lifts his hand away, stretching out to make this easier. It's so incredibly easy to be urgent, motivated by the smell of leather and salt-sweat on skin. Jeff slides a finger over the zipper pull at Idris' chest. He doesn't know where the urge comes from, but his hands reach to unzip the leather jacket, wind the tie into his hand and pull Idris' mouth to his. He tastes like a different kind of tea today, the milk and lemon gone for more smoke and spice when Jeff slides his tongue just inside. His hand reaches up and behind Idris' head, fingers coming to cradle. Idris' hands seek rest at Jeff's sides, fingers clench against Jeff's skin even if the touch is a spot uncomfortable. They fit together, close like this with equal pressure and magnified need.

Jeff sits back as he flicks the fly on his jeans open, pushes it off his hips and down his thighs so he can kick it off the rest of the way as he reaches for the condom, the lube. 

"Jeff, I didn't…You don't," Idris pants, sitting up on his elbows with his body reeling. 

"I know," he soothes. "We got time." 

He doesn't say 'let me do this for you', or 'I owe you this'. Instead, he parts Idris' shirt tails, pushing it up his stomach, rolling the condom down his dick and furnishing the head with a healthy amount of lube. Mounting is a goofy, unsexy movement, but then he's pushing down and back and those leather-covered hands are reaching up to clutch at his thighs, the body below him totally taken by surprise. Elba makes a noise like he's been gutted, and Jeff really doesn't blame him. 

And yeah, Jeff's willing to admit that the absurdity of taking the time to finger himself open before was totally worth it for the look of incredulousness on Idris' face in the first long stretch. 

"Oh god," he chokes. "You're so damn tight." 

"Interesting how that happens when you don't do this for a while," Jeff grins as he pushes himself forward, lets Idris slide free. His hands reach for the oxford shirt the guy's still wearing, his fingers wadding up the cloth. He holds his mouth just out of reach, snarling as he pushes back down, hips sitting square against hips. Idris' hands mold against Jeff's skin to hold him still as he thrusts upward, angled just right until he's hitting Jeff where it's best. And then it's all thrust, no need for words. 

Jeff reaches backward to where the two of them are joined, and flicks the ring open. Idris trembles as his toes curl and his whole body arches up once more. Jeff slowly, carefully undoes the buttons on the oxford shirt, sliding the tie free as he reveals that body once more. It takes a tricky little bit of positioning, but Jeff goes with it, bending to tease a nipple with his mouth as he fucks himself down on that cock, groaning against skin hidden in shadow as he hits his prostate and shoves against it so hard he swears his ears ring. Idris is blown open like a crime scene, he looks torn to shreds, his whole body one big nerve. 

"Slow…slow down," he sighs, tongue peeking out between his lips. Jeff wants that tongue in his mouth, the urge to come a pleasant itch under the skin. He'll obey, just this once. Idris takes the opportunity to whip them around, knees against Jeff's lower back, Jeff's legs lay open while he's shoved backwards against the bed.

"You just can't lay back and take it, can you? 'Too stone' even for that?" Jeff hisses. He watches as Idris backs away with a determined smirk to shed his leather jacket and the oxford shirt. Jeff sits up, reaches out to wiggle the double windsor of that tie free, letting it slip casually away from his fingers. "Leaving the gloves on?" 

"Oh yes," Elba nods. He reaches down to hold Jeff open, leather gloves masterfully holding Jeff's scrotum out of the way so he can see the graceful dip of pelvis that leads to Jeff's entrance, lube-wet and fucked open. Jeff lays there, biting his lip in anticipation for what's to happen next. "I like keeping my promises, you understand?" 

"I do," Jeff strains to say. Idris' breath is sweltering against swollen skin, his free hand stroking Jeff's flank like he's some kind of scared animal. No, it's hard to be scared when Idris presses his mouth flush to Jeff's hole, tongue flicking down along the rim. The first real touch beyond a teasing graze is electric, has Jeff rolling up into Elba's hands, his mouth. Idris uses that to his advantage, rolls his tongue deeper, adds a little pressure on his lips and uses his hands to hold Jeff down, the kind of kiss that'd make anyone melt no matter where it was delivered. Jeff's foot comes down, traces the side of Idris' chest, lands on his back. Idris' hand reaches for Jeff's other leg, pushes it up to Jeff's chest and turns his head, just a little. 

The sensation's overwhelming, as Idris eats away at him, tongue slick and curious like he's tasting something for the first time. Jeff fights the urge to beg, his toes curling under and his thighs coming to close around Idris' head. 

"Don't you think you can get away, Morgan," Elba growls, uses a thumb to wedge right under the curve of Jeff's ass, just a spark of pain that makes Jeff clench as the vibrations of those words bounce around inside him. Jeff's breath hitches and he squirms and opens a little wider, just enough space for Idris' tongue to dip inside, lick and tease at the skin, stretched open and puffy. 

"Fuck," Jeff groans, clenching down as he breaches deeper before receding. Idris tongue-fucks him like high-tide, the quick rhythmic charge in deep that slowly recedes and leaves traces of sensation and memory behind. Sometimes he'll recede all the way, start the whole devilish process again. Jeff's whimpering before it's over, inches away from an orgasm he doesn't want but he'll take if Idris shoves him into it. 

And then suddenly, Idris backs away once more, cataloguing every angle of just how Jeff responds to his touch. 

"Please," Jeff says. 

"I wouldn't beg, it's unbecoming," Elba advises as he holds Jeff under each knee and pushes back in, down to the hilt. There's a pause, a swing of hips as Idris ponders his next move. He smirks, "I'd have these over my shoulders if I thought you'd be able to take it." 

Jeff will probably regret it in the morning but fuck it, he's willing to try. He lifts his legs a bit, lets them slide up Idris' arms, higher and higher. And finally, they're together with cock deep enough Jeff can almost feel it crawling up his throat, the strokes embarrassingly slow and thorough. Idris is looking down at Jeff, absolutely focused in his ministrations, and as he slides against Jeff's prostate, Jeff lets every sensation wordlessly show on his face, his hands spreading up and out against the bed. 

And then there's a gloved hand on his dick, all just-right pressure and texture. Idris reaches with his other hand, tracing the cut of Jeff's collarbone. His legs fall and they don't make an effort to replace them, not when Idris is pushing so deep, forward against Jeff's torso. His lips are crawling up Jeff's jaw. 

"How long?" he asks. A leather-covered thumb rubs against Jeff's chapped lips, and it takes everything he has not to wrap his lips around it. 

Jeff isn't even sure of the question but he knows the answer. "Long enough." 

Idris puts his head in the curve of Jeff's neck. He whispers, "never again." 

And then it's hard rutting, so deep Jeff feels like he can't breathe. The burn engulfs Jeff from the inside, makes him shake with the exertion as his fingers rise from the bed to slide against Idris' back and press against the solid muscle. Jeff can't even bring himself to moan, his mouth hanging open in a silent scream. Elba's hand starts clenching, moving up against his cock and he's on the edge of it: so very, very close. He rolls his head a little, his mouth catching Idris' to taste his own sweat and fuck, he's done. 

He can feel every inch of his orgasm as it happens, the way he chokes on it, the soft light behind his eyes when he squeezes them shut, the solid column of muscle inside him that doesn't waver as he clenches down on it. Idris pushes one of his legs flat against the bed so his hips will cant just a little different, and ruts against him, fucking fast and hard and Jeff's along for the ride as he floats down, eases into the bed. 

"C'mon," Jeff groans, licking into that gorgeous mouth. He's writhing now, hips fucking back, every cylinder firing as Idris keeps stroking against his prostate, hand loosely cupped against Jeff's cock. He's over-sensitized, every input magnified until it's somehow more real. "Let go for me. Let it happen. I want it." 

He's absolutely aware he's pleading. But it's okay, he thinks. He's been pleading since the guy walked through the front door. 

Idris' brows knit, his mouth hangs open and slack and oh, oh yes, Jeff knows that last desperate little shove well. 

They stay still for a bit, catching breath while intertwined in an alien position not quite approved for men of their age and stature. The intimacy is almost jarring, as it always is. Jeff muses about how this can work, how Idris can breeze right in, still smelling of too-expensive whiskey and six different kinds of twink and Jeff still aches to the very core for his companionship, knows a very special few get a peek behind this particular curtain. 

Idris' hand slips away from Jeff's cock, until it's just the fingertips on a long stroke downward. Jeff crumples like a piece of paper, the aftershock the kind of overwhelming that's just plain embarrassing. 

"I keep telling you, old man, you simply must stop overthinking," Elba says, affectionately. 

"You just fucked me into a stupor. I'm allowed to get mushy," Jeff mutters, pushing the hand out of the way. His fingers stay wrapped on Idris' wrist, the movement cascading until they're palm to palm. It's easy to take Idris' mouth once more, soft and slow. 

Their separation is a funny, empty feeling. Idris plucks his gloves off and walks over to the bathroom, throwing water on his face as Jeff bites his lip. He gets out of bed. "I'm going to have to take another shower."

"You could use it," Idris replies as Jeff pushes beside him to get to the back of the bathroom. Come's dripping down Jeff's stomach, and he looks absolutely wrecked. 

Idris still pulls him in close, kisses him softly. And Jeff knows this mouth, this tongue with its pace, how slow it is and wanton can become. It's a plea, a reminder that this is who they are privately. Jeff takes the time to remind himself there's nothing wrong with that. They break apart, "Go wash up, and I'll set about opening that bottle of wine." 

The thought of someone rooting through his pristine kitchen makes him a little worried, but fuck it. "Wine glasses are under the ba-" 

Idris' knowing smile quiets Jeff down, "You know I've been in your kitchen enough times to make instructions like that genuinely offensive, right?" 

Jeff laughs under his breath as he slides into the shower. 

 

 

 

Jeff knots the towel around his waist and attempts to not look like a total schmuck when he walks out into the living room, the den, the atrium hall, into the kitchen. There, Idris looks just as ridiculous, in his slip-ons and boxer-briefs. A younger man would likely look effortlessly hunky like this, leaning on the countertop with a glass of wine in one hand and a picture plucked from the fridge in the other. Idris makes it pragmatic and a little facetious, an acknowledgement that yes, he's staying the night, and yes, he's in a place that's not quite his own. 

Even worse, there's something even more domestic about it, given the fact that there's a plate of sushi spread out in the middle of the table, from the place down the street. Jeff didn't even think they were still open, but a quick glance at the clock reveals it's a lot earlier than he thought. Stupid fuckin' jet-lag. 

"I wasn't in the shower that long, was I?" 

Idris looks up from the picture, his expression curious but not dim. "You were, actually. Found myself peckish, figure I'd order enough for the both of us. Bloody thing just got here." 

"A snack's a snack," Jeff shrugs. The modest boat-shaped platter does look more appetizing with every glance. 

The steel chopsticks Jeff has are lain out in a mockery of a place setting, alongside an empty wine glass and the open bottle all grouped together on the counter by Idris, angled toward the place where Jeff is standing. Ah, he thinks as he brings himself to approach, once more with grand design. 

"You touchin' my stuff again, Elba?" he asks. He picks up the wine bottle, pours himself a taste. It's spicy-fragrant-alcohol, heady enough to ply him down. "What've you got your hands on now?"

Idris flips the picture over, holds it between two fingers. 

Jeff looks up at it, and pours himself a bigger glass before reaching to pluck it from Idris' fingers.

"That's her, I take it," Idris asks as he flicks the sushi container open, grabs his chopsticks with a quick flourish. 

Jeff sighs, forgetting just when he decided this was how he'd remember Mary-Louise, and nods. It's a picture of her, the sides of her head shaven and long tendrils of hair falling over part of her face. She's gasping for air from laughter and shock, her brown eyes saucer-wide and hollow in the light of the camera's flash. She looks like she's on the verge of a coughing fit. 

It was the last week before she'd gotten _worse_ , sunken in and downhill fast. Jeff knows how the sides of her head got that way, but he won't bring himself to drudge up the full memory: he's rehearsed it enough times in the past few years as is. She still looks healthy in this picture, no sense of impending doom at all, so Jeff'd stuck it on the refrigerator, right between the magnets holding the shopping list and the takeout menus. And he'd kept it there, even as the guilt dissipated and he'd seen the world with new eyes once again. He imagines the way the picture revealed itself to Idris, dropping at the guy's feet as he'd taken the Sushi shop menu from the magnetized stack. 

"Yeah," he sighs. 

"Don't blame you," Idris says, but Jeff doesn't know the context. He puts the picture down, flat against the metal countertop and takes another drink of wine. He tries not to think too hard. Idris' hand slides against his, the touch telling Jeff all he needs to know. "Did what you could." 

It pains Jeff to think of it, but he does pour over his history quickly. He nods, looking rather far off. "Doin' more than that." 

Idris puts the chopsticks down and stands up straight, raising his glass in an informal toast. "Then we carry on in her memory." 

Jeff follows suit. "I can't believe you can get away with saying ridiculous shit like that. It's got to be the accent." 

"It helps," Idris shrugs. Jeff sees a happy shake from Bisou in the corner, and his brows furrow. She's all rolled up in her bed, chewing at something between her paws. 

"You fuckin' fed my dog?" Jeff squints. 

"She deserves treats just like we do," Idris sing-songs, gesturing with his chopsticks. "You should eat, too, keep your strength up. And promise me you won't be so distant about the things you think I should know." 

"I usually don't even need to talk about it. It just felt like I was keeping it from you." 

"Well, now it's out. And I want you to tell me every time we approach something that makes you feel like you felt with her," Elba demands, stabbing the air meaningfully with his chopsticks. 

"You don't remind me of her one bit," Jeff says, honestly. It takes everything he has not to make it sound like a snarl, a man protecting his life from someone who wants to be let in. That's not the way things should be turning out, and Jeff refuses to start down that road.

Idris holds his gaze, washing the fish down with his wine, "is that supposed to be a good thing?" 

Jeff is slow to respond but nods. He knows it's the right thing, meaningfully. 

"She'd be a little more confused at the choices I make than you seem to be," Jeff says, and it's hard to meet the man's eyes but he knows he's going to have to, soon, "but she always knew what she wanted and would tear down heaven and Earth to get it. That kinda sounds like something you'd do." 

"All the time," Idris agrees. "I'm just wondering if I'm going to have to end up doing that for you. Eventually." 

"Sound like you've caught some feelings there, Elba," Jeff says, lifting the glass to his lips once more to drain it dry. This feels good, comfortable in a way Jeff hasn't opened himself up to in a long time. 

"Is that what you Americans call it? 'Catching feelings?' Should I be expecting to break out into hives or muscular atrophy at any point in time now that I've admitted I enjoy your company?" Idris jokes. He stretches to pick up the bottle once more and moves to refill Jeff's glass. The wine does taste sweeter, now that Jeff's mouth has acclimated to the alcohol. He decides he will partake in the sushi, and prays Idris has left him enough Wasabi to make the experience at least a little enjoyable. "Will I develop something terminal?" 

"Beyond forever explaining to your interns which one of us is the 'lady' in the relationship, I don't think so," Jeff smiles, plucking a knot off the big green scoop to flick it onto an errant California Roll. "I'll make sure to keep an eye on it, though. I'm good at that." 

Idris slides in close enough that Jeff can feel his body heat, a soft support. He reaches across, snatching the ginger up to lay across a tuna roll, bites through with even keel. They eat in companionable silence, and finish the bottle of wine. Bisou's settling in the corner. 

After everything's washed and put away and Jeff's in his pantry-cum-cellar, looking for a new bottle worth opening, he looks back and watches Idris leaning against the countertop, looking down into the last dregs of his wine glass. 

"What?" Jeff asks. 

"You'd do that for me?" he counters, "Keep an eye on me in case I…" 

"Yeah. Yeah, I would," Jeff interrupts, yanking at a bottle he's been meaning to open and thanking the wine gods that it's a screw-top. He puts it down on the counter beside his glass and lifts his gaze to meet Idris'. "In case you haven't noticed, it's what I do for people I care about." 

"Yeah?" He continues, and it's easy for Jeff to stop, press his mouth up to those lips. The kiss isn't urgent, nor slow burning. Instead, it's generous and soft-spoken, spicy-salty-sweet. Idris' fingers travel down, down, toward the knot of the towel around Jeff's hips. Even though he could, he doesn't tug the end free, opting to stroke the skin just above the cinch. "And if I wish to negotiate for a move past the general 'caring about you' stage?" 

Jeff knows where that road leads, with potholes and traffic jams and total isolation at the end. He never thought he'd be looking in that direction again. Still, he can feel the grip of his control loosening, his heart pounding in his chest. 

This will be different, he thinks, with its open end and less romantic edges and the fact that he's watched Idris in all sorts of situations with others at the club, will likely watch the guy in those situations over and over again without remorse. Jeff's hand raises to trace along the cut of Idris' jaw. He watches as the man's mouth tips down, laying closed mouth kisses over Jeff's palm like a promise. And it feels like a breaking of an agreed-upon contract, like the kinda thing that hurts as it heals and gets better but Jeff embraces that for the first time in forever. Jeff knows he doesn't feel anxious about this, and the words come out in the kind of hot whisper that can cut anyone to the core. "I'll let you know when I'm ready." 

Anyone else and Jeff knows they'd have a sad frown on their face, a lovelorn look in their eye. They'd have doubts about Jeff feeling the same way even after he'd revealed the biggest secret he has. But no, this is different. 

"It's okay, take all the time you need," Idris moves his hand back up from the knot at Jeff's waist to place his palm warm and flat against Jeff's chest, over his heart. "Trust me."

Jeff feels his brows furrowing. "Why?" 

"Because," Idris says simply, "I can wait." 

Jeff smiles inwardly. None of this makes a single ounce of sense, not with all the baggage Jeff has and the person he is when he's not under the spell of the club. But that doesn't particularly matter, he supposes, if he has someone who wants to play it by ear with him, see where this goes. 

No, he doesn't think Elba will have to wait for very long at all.


End file.
